


Bang, Bang, Bang

by hotrodngold (Krystalicekitsu)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Gunplay, Kinks, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-20 19:41:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krystalicekitsu/pseuds/hotrodngold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal doesn't like guns. And yet the sight of Peter on the shooting range is the reason he's here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bang, Bang, Bang

**Author's Note:**

> For [card](http://krystalicekitsu.livejournal.com/126604.html#cutid2) ' _guns_ '.

Neal doesn't like guns.

Can't stand them, in fact.

Hates them with a fiery, all consuming passion, the cheap, dumb way to get what any suitably intelligent person can get without the ugly brutality the threat of a bullet automatically brings to the game. They're heavy handed, inelegant, brutish and the tool of a backward, simpleminded coward.

And yet.

And yet the sight of Peter on the shooting range, feet planted, arms extended, cool and confidant, breath in- one, two, three- breathe out one- squeezing the trigger with practiced ease- Bang! Bang! Bang!- the long line of his body-

It's the reason he's here.

Back at June's. On his lunch break. Hands flying furiously over parchment, charcoal dancing away from him, again and again, from this angle and from that angle. Shoulders back, head up, eyes focused, hips square, spine straight- again and again and again-

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Neal groans, hands not fast enough, fumbling in his need, paper and element fail him, not enough, not _enough_ -

It all gets swept to the floor with a breath, a long exhale, desperate, nothing like the calm, measured exhalations of that Peter on the range. That Peter who knew exactly what he was doing, the Peter who knew how to use a gun, how to control it, take it and make it his, conquer it and tame it's power until _he_ was the true weapon, all sleek danger and leashed destruction. An intoxicant. A dangerously intelligent, self-aware predator.

His slacks are gone before the last sheaf of paper slides to the floor and he catches the lines out of the corner of his eye: Peter's face in profile, intense and focused as he pops the clip, safety glasses perched on his nose and glinting dully with the overhead lights that make his gun gleam like liquid night.

Neal scrambles out of his shorts, an awkward combination of bucking and snapping limbs that almost shreds his shirt at the same time and he wraps a hand around his aching cock, pumping in the measured strokes that _this_ Peter would use.

Measured and controlled and used to _drive him insane_.

_'Yes, like that Neal. Just like that. You like my gun, huh? Thought you hated guns, Neal. Was that a lie? Did you lie to me, Neal? Should we see?' Peter whispers in his ear, stubble rasping over his temple, Peter's hand squeezing harshly for a moment before resuming the slow torture._

Neal's hand echoes the movement.

_The gun is there suddenly and Neal's heartbeat picks up in response. Peter presses the flat of his tongue against his pulse and bites down sharply._

_'Shh. This is mine. Just like you are mine. You're both mine and my toys know how to behave.' Peter lays a gentle kiss against the raw skin his bite had agitated and suddenly the barrel of the gun is there, cold and sharp against the side of his face and if he glances to the left he can barely see the hammer, resting innocently, waiting like Neal is for permission, for release-_

Neal groans and picks up the pace because-

_-they're back at the range, Neal bent over the bar dividing the range from the deadly sea of bullets, slacks torn and pooled around his ankles, shorts nowhere in sight and Peter pounding into him from behind-_

What the hell- Neal adds handcuffs to the mix- might as well go for broke-

_\- his hands handcuffed to a metal pole over the edge of the bar, stretching him over and- no shirt- Peter leaning over him- tie dragging over his spine, rough cotton over his shoulders and against his ass and- Peter fucking him deep, powerful thrusts but never too much because-_

_'I know you can take it, Neal, because you're mine, and I know how much you can handle-'_

_'Because you're mine-'_

_'You're mine-'_

_'You belong to me, Neal-'_

_'Mine-'_

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Neal comes with a scream that hurts and an orgasm that leaves his arms leaden and his toes tingling. All he can do is lie there, chest heaving, furiously glad that June is out to lunch with Cindy. Ashamed, maybe, that he just jerked off to a fantasy involving guns and his handler. Involving _Peter_.

Peter who had been so damn sexy-

He groans and forces himself upright and into the bathroom. Halfway through his shower and his legs stop trembling. A third of the way through the taxi ride back to the office and his post-orgasmic stupor is even mostly gone.

But when he gets back to the office he finds the last piece of paperwork for the Jensen file and runs it up to Peter. Peter who obviously just got back- _How did I miss that?_ \- and Peter who shrugs out of his suit jacket with a practiced move.

The one that rolls his shoulders back, momentarily straightens his spine, hips square and feet planted, the same instant his gaze hones in on Neal with that intense focus.

The move that pulls tight along the shoulder holster and sets the halogen lights to caress the butt of his gun.

_-the leather holster wrapped around Neal's hands, behind his head- Peter down between his legs, the hand holding his gun pinning Neal's hips in place-_

Peter's smile is the only thing that breaks the image and saves Neal's sanity.

"Hey, Neal. How was lunch?"


End file.
